


If You Wish It

by reona32



Series: A House; A Home [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: Now in their old age, Napoleon and Illya search for a home to share their lives with each other. Napoleon falls in love with an old house and Illya is all too happy to please him, even if the house is falling apart.





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Napoleon is head of Uncle North America, taking over Waverly's old position, and Illya is his right hand man. Made up family. Here I picture Napoleon and Illya in their 60's.

Illya followed the Realtor inside the house and fought down a sneeze. “Unfortunately, the house has been abandoned for the past two years,” said Patricia Novak, a woman in her late forties who was doing her best to hide how frustrated her current clients were making her. Illya looked around the foyer they had stepped into with an impassive face. “Built in 1886, it has four bedrooms upstairs and a study with a living room, dining room, and large kitchen downstairs,” the Realtor was saying, turning on her purple heels to gesture toward several archways leading off the short hallway. 

Illya was barely listening. This was the fifth house they'd seen that day; twenty third since they started looking. An Uncle Section V agent stepped past him and started searching the rooms. Through a window in the living room, the glass yellow with filth, another agent was circling the house. Illya knew that a third agent was waiting by the cars outside.

Napoleon passed by Illya, his hand reaching up to touch the rather ornate wooden banister on the stairs. He was paying the housing agent about as much attention as the blond was. Mrs. Novak gamely kept talking, pointing out the original hard wood floors and plaster moldings. Napoleon walked down the hallway, head tilted back to look at the old tin ceiling. Illya followed him into the kitchen. The Section V agent had parked himself unobtrusively in the corner, seemingly blending into the peeling wallpaper.

Dim light shown through the kitchen windows and Napoleon paused in front of them. Stain glass blocks had been inset along the edge of the window and a rainbow of muted color fell on the dusty floor. An old farm table, bulky and dark with age, took up the center of the room. In the far corner, a hulking black stove hunched. A small smile curled Napoleon's lips and Illya frowned, looking around the room with a more discerning eye. His mind turned to renovations; blocking off a unneeded door there, how to secure the huge fireplace from would-be intruders, the effort it would take to sand and refinish the floors. The housing agent crept in behind them, sensing a change in her clients that hadn't been there in any other house she had showed them. “There are a couple of sheds and outbuildings on the property,” she said hopefully. “Big enough for the workshop you wanted, Mr. Kuryakin. There is also a cellar, Mr. Solo, for your wine collection.”

Napoleon walked slowly across the kitchen. “How big did you say the property was?” he asked after a long second of staring into the dilapidated butler's pantry.

Mrs. Novak grinned; this was the most enthusiasm they’d shown for any of the houses she had presented them. “Fourteen acres; five acres for the house and lawn and the other nine are wooded. There is a pond to the west of the house, just like you asked for.” Napoleon nodded, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Is there a door to the back?” asked Illya, making her jump a bit.

“Yes, through the back porch, over there.”

Illya headed through, noting that the floor was soft underfoot from rot. “Careful,” he muttered back to Napoleon, “the floor is compromised.” The brunet nodded and stepped carefully. Illya opened the door, having to yank on the stubborn latch. He clambered down the rickety steps to the uneven stone patio. “Careful,” Illya cautioned again, turning to offer his hand. Napoleon grabbed it in lieu of the nonexistent rail and stepped down. Together they considered the tangled garden and overgrown lawn. Two of the Section V agents stopped at the end of the pathway and waited. Illya glanced up at the back of the house and hid a wince; there was huge hole in the roof. “This place is a mess.”

“It’s both closer and more area than we’d thought we’d get,” Napoleon said back. He walked to the edge of the patio and lightly touched a pink rose. He brushed aside some ivy and sat on a stone bench. “An hour’s drive and we would be back at headquarters. It’s on enough land to satisfy our security needs and the house is plenty big enough for our personal needs. We’d have to tear any house we bought apart to install the security and moderating systems, so why not buy something that needs a little TLC anyway? Besides,” Napoleon turned away from the garden to smile at the blond, “I like it.”

“You’ve only seen the kitchen and backyard. How can you say you like it?”

Napoleon’s smile drifted across the wide windows at the rear of the house. “I don’t know. I just do. It’s got a good feeling.”

“A feeling? Bozhe moi,” muttered Illya, reaching up to rub between his eyes.

“Illya,” Napoleon replied, slightly singsong. Illya looked up skeptically. “I like it,” Napoleon said softly. And they both knew that was it. Illya didn't really care what house they bought as long as it was on enough land and had a structure away from the house so he could tinker. (Napoleon knew that this was so if anything ever went wrong, Illya would be the only one hurt, unlike if he had a workshop in the basement or an attached garage. Napoleon regularly frustrated Illya by settling somewhere nearby to read or nap. He was evil like that.)

Illya sighed, shaking his head slightly. “If you wish it.”


	2. TWO

The sale of the house and property was quick. Illya was sure that the Realtor was ecstatic to see the back of them. A few days after the paperwork was finalized, the house was swarmed with Uncle approved contractors and Section VI agents, working together to make the renovations and install the security system. The first order of business was figuring out what needed to be replaced or repaired; which was pretty much everything.

Napoleon was using a broom to brush away the hanging cobwebs in the living room, a little smile on his lips as the woodwork was freed from the dust; until he saw the little white bugs crawling around a small hole at the bottom of a wall. He took a step closer and felt the floor give slightly under his feet. “Oh dear.” There ended up being termites in the east wall. An exterminator came and sprayed and almost the whole wall had to be replaced with new timber.

The termites were less traumatizing than the rats in the butler’s pantry. No matter what anyone said, Illya did not scream like he was being murdered when one darted out of a cabinet and ran over his foot. (Every Uncle agent on the property came running, weapons drawn, and Napoleon teased him for days.) But by far the most time consuming were the repairs to the foundation. The stone under the house was crumbling. The area was dug out and a team was slowly shoring up the underside while replacing the stone with cement block.

Illya prodded the underside of the floor truss and subfloor with a screwdriver and frowned. “We could run the pressure sensor lines under the new subfloor,” Agent Hines from security was saying, “and the T14 and G-P11 cables along the new floor joists.”

Illya nodded thoughtfully. “It would eliminate the possibility of the system being disabled by merely cutting the lines but are the pressure sensors sensitive enough to work from underneath the floor?”

“Yes,” replied Hines, “anything over a pound in weight will be detected by the pressure sensor through three feet of wooden material. We should have no problems running it on the underside of the subfloors.”

Illya nodded. “Let’s do that then. Get everything ready and I’ll tell Joe to start pulling the rotted subfoor we need to replace, starting with the living room.”

“Sure thing, Mr. K.” Hines left, a small tablet computer tucked into his elbow.

Illya poked at the stone with a deeper frown. He was faintly uneasy standing in the pit under the house, the building’s only support a crumbling foundation and a structure of 2x4's they had put up. On the other side of the pit, a team was carefully removing the crumbling stone and loading it onto a cart. Napoleon wanted the old stone for some reason he hadn't yet revealed. The wall at the front of the house had already been replaced with new block.

Illya turned, alerted by the second sense he and his partner had developed, to see Napoleon carefully making his way down the dirt slope into the pit under the house. Luckily the area was mostly dry. It had not rained for some time. Illya looked down at Napoleon's shoes and was satisfied when he saw him wearing steel toed boots. They had had an argument when Illya had found Napoleon walking around the worksite in dress shoes. The last thing either of them needed was Napoleon stepping on a nail in a pair of Italian loafers.

Napoleon smiled in greeting as he reached the bottom of the slope. “How is it going?” he asked, looking curiously around. The floor of the house was perhaps two feet over their heads.

“As well as expected,” Illya replied. “We're going to run the pressure senor and the cable under the new subfloor as soon as Joe and his team lay the new wood.”

“Are the floors really that bad?”

Illya lifted his screwdriver and punched the shaft through the floor above his head, the wood splinting easily. “Yes.”


	3. THREE

Illya was kneeling on a piece of plywood, running cable along the floor joints of the upper level. On the other side of the room a team of workers was ripping rotted supports out and replacing them with new. The rotted supports were tossed out a nearby window to land in a dumpster. Napoleon, Illya knew, was outside with the ground crew. The lawn just had to be cut but the gardens took a lighter and more experienced hand. Another crew was tearing down one of the sheds; it was too far gone to be saved.

Yelling rose from outside and Illya jerked his head up. “What's happening?” he demanded, struggling up from his knees. It would be suicide to attack them now with the number of agents on the property but Illya wouldn't put it past some idiot Thrush to try and make a name for themselves.

Some of the men were already at the window. “The shed they were taking down collapsed prematurely,” replied one of the carpenters.

“Napoleon?”

“Safe. Standing on the patio.” They made room for him and pointed to where Napoleon was standing.

The brunet was wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt, probably as dressed down as he got in public, and had a pair of gardening gloves on his hands. A pile of weeds and dead foliage was by his feet. “Napoleon?” called Illya, leaning out of the window. Napoleon turned and looked up, shading his eyes with a hand. “Ok?”

“Everything is fine,” Napoleon replied. Someone in the garden yelped and a woman flailed near the overgrown bushes. A rabbit sprinted across the patio and lawn, disappearing into the trees. “Well, mostly fine,” amended Napoleon with a slight smile. “Are you alright, Karla?” he asked, wading into the tall plants to check on the woman.

Illya rolled his eyes and pulled his head in. “George, did Neil come back with more staples yet?” He wanted to get the cables in and the floor laid in this room before the end of the day. They'd link them in with the lines already in the walls and get the cameras and sensors up before the restorers returned with the refurbished tin tiles for the ceiling.


	4. FOUR

A couple days later found Illya sitting cross legged on the kitchen floor, fiddling with a motion sensor. He muttered quietly to a Section VI tech through his headset. Across the room, two men were scrubbing the fireplace brick. Napoleon wandered in, a smudge of something dark on his nose and hair falling messily across his forehead. He walked over to Illya and tapped the top of his head lightly. “Floor stain; have a preference?” he asked, holding two hunks of wood in front of his face. One had a stain color slightly lighter than the other. Illya stared for a moment and then pointed to the darker shade. “Thank you,” Napoleon said, walking away. Illya went back to muttering into his headset.

Their one big argument over their home was the fence. Illya wanted to fence in the whole property and, if he had his way, electrify it. Napoleon argued that this would affect the wild life and he did not want to live in a makeshift prison. It was one of the few shouting matches they ever got into. In the end, the front of the property facing the road and into the trees for several yards was fenced, with a gate at the driveway. The rest of it, heavily wooded and set up with motion sensors and cameras, was left unfenced. The first time Illya looked out the kitchen windows to see a ghostly herd of deer out on the foggy early morning lawn, he conceded that Napoleon probably had a point.


	5. FIVE

The old floor planks had been put back down on the new plywood subfloor. The floors no longer gave when you stepped on them. What couldn't be used of the original old wood had been carefully replaced with reclaimed wood from other houses that had been demolished. It had been a tedious and prolonged endeavor but Napoleon had insisted that they use as much of the original wood floor as was possible and that similar wood be sourced from other places for what couldn't be salvaged. Illya thought it unnecessary but, like most things with the house, Napoleon held firm.

Now Illya was having some fun with the big drum sander. He liked machines. He liked using machines he'd never had a chance to use before even better. Doug, the guy who should have been the one slowly pushing the sander around the living room, was standing in the archway to the hallway, eating a turkey sandwich and keeping an eye on Illya.

Over the sound and vibration of the sander, Illya could hear hammers banging away upstairs. The plaster walls had been heavily water damaged from the hole in the roof and even Napoleon conceded that replacing the walls with new sheetrock was needed; although the workers tried their best to save the molded plaster ceiling medallions for the chandeliers. All the windows were being replaced as well, bullet proof and run with fine wiring for the security system.

When Illya reached the other end of the room he shut off the sander and turned to look at his handiwork. The sanded floor was pale, the old stains and gunk removed. “Not bad, Mr. K,” commented Doug. “You ever get tired of police work, you've got a job sanding floors with me.”

Illya smiled but shook his head. “I'll keep that in mind, Doug. I think I'll hand this back to you now and let you get back to work.”

“Looks like my break is over,” Doug said with a laugh, taking the sanding machine back. The next room to have the floors refinished would be the study.

Illya left, heading down the hallway and into the kitchen. In there the floors had been laid, sanded, and already stained and sealed, their color a rich brown. The big bulky farm table still dominated the center of the room. Dark wood cabinets had been hung and granite counter tops placed. The spaces for the stove, sink, dishwasher, and refrigerator still stood empty. On the side, the little eating alcove with its big windows and stained glass border now had a table and bench setting.

A white tile backsplash was going in over the counters on the far side of the room and it was there that Illya found Napoleon, leaning over the counter to carefully fit each tile in place. Illya’s lips twisted. “Napoleon?” he called. The brunet looked up, cocking an eyebrow. “Can I speak with you a moment? In the butler’s pantry?”

“Sure?” Napoleon's tone turned the reply into a question itself. Illya gestured the brunet through the door and then closed and locked it behind them. Napoleon looked around the small room. When they had purchased the house, the cabinets and counters had been painted a peeling, chipping grimy white. It had taken forever to strip the old paint and repair the damage to the shelves. Now the butler's pantry was bare wood, just waiting for new stain. “Is something wrong in here?” asked Napoleon, looking around at the newly sanded cabinets. “Did we find a mistake?”

Illya stepped up behind him and pressed his thumbs to either side of Napoleon's spine. “You are going to throw your back out leaning over the counter like that. What possessed you to try and lay the backsplash tile?”

Napoleon grunted, swaying forward and catching himself against the counter. Illya walked his thumbs up the other man's back. “It's not that bad,” Napoleon huffed.

“The state of your muscles says otherwise.” Illya found a knot and dug the heel of his palm into it, rubbing in a small circle. Napoleon gasped. “We're not as young as we used to be, lyublyu.”

“Blasphemy,” grunted Napoleon. “Up a little.” Illya obeyed, turning his hand and using his knuckles carefully until the knot gave. Napoleon sighed happily. “Oh, I love you.”

“Me and my massaging skills,” teased Illya with a small smile. He ran his hands down Napoleon’s spine and kneaded the curve of his lower back.

“Those too.”


	6. SIX

The whole house smelled of fresh paint, even with the windows open. Illya entered the house and nearly had a heart attack when he walked by the dining room to find Napoleon at the top of a ladder cleaning dry wall dust and other dirt from the chandelier with a wet cloth. He was sitting perched on the very top and Illya felt concern climb up his throat. “I wish you wouldn't get up there like that,” he said.

“I'm fine,” Napoleon said. He looked down. “I'm ready for the bulbs, Vicky.”

The woman standing at the bottom of the ladder, her own dark hair liberally streaked with gray, grinned at Illya. “You two are so cute together,” she cooed, handing the first lightbulb up to her younger brother.

“Twenty years and we're still being called cute,” muttered Napoleon, screwing the bulb in.

“Twenty three years,” Illya corrected absently. Both Napoleon and his sister paused to stare at him. Illya flushed slightly.

“And my husband can't even remember my birthday unless I write it on the calendar in the kitchen,” grumbled Victoria. She slapped her brother's leg playfully. “You lucky dog.”

“Where are Lincoln and Eleanor?” asked Illya before the teasing could escalate.

“Lincoln is helping with the fireplace tile in the study and Eleanor is out in the garden,” replied Victoria.

“Thank you.”

“So cute,” Victoria cooed quietly as Illya walked past.

The flush on Illya's face darkened, making Napoleon chuckle at his partner's discomfort. “Be careful,” Illya muttered as he left. He walked past the stairs and down the hallway toward the kitchen. Lincoln was indeed in the study with one of the restorers carefully cleaning and repairing the green Italian tiles around the small fireplace. The young man had inherited his father’s blond hair but seemed to have the same keen mind as all the Solos, soaking up the restorer’s quiet instructions like a sponge. He was in his last year of college and would soon graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree in Mathematics. Through the kitchen window, Illya could see where Eleanor was attacking the blackberry bramble in the garden with a pair of long shears and thick gloves. Eleanor had the Solo family's dark good looks and she turned more than one head at Uncle Headquarters in her position as a Section IV analysts. Her Section VI security husband certainly thought she was beautiful and practically worshipped the ground she walked on. (A fact that saved him from a transfer to Antarctica during the early days of the relationship.)

Illya had wanted to remove the huge blackberry bramble but Napoleon insisted it stay. Now they were just trying to tame the wild bush into something that didn’t wrap around ankles and prick the unwary. Still, fresh blackberries on vanilla ice cream were a pleasure. A pair of men were wrestling a six burner cook range into place in the kitchen. Another group of men were above the stairs hanging the last of the refurbished tin ceiling tiles, standing on makeshift scaffolding that was making Illya a little nervous. The last of the exterior was being painted. In the next couple days, they were expecting furniture to be delivered.

Illya drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He knew other house renovations of this magnitude took longer than the couple months they’d seen. (Other, normal people who didn’t have clandestine global spy organizations efficiently moving things along.) But Illya found himself hungering for the crowd of construction workers and Uncle personnel to be gone from his home. He wandered out onto the back porch.

A familiar step sounded behind him and then Napoleon leaned close for a quick kiss to Illya’s cheek. “You like it,” Napoleon muttered smugly.

Illya’s lips quirked a little. “It has grown on me the last few weeks.”

Victoria came into the kitchen and the two stepped apart. “So, what’s for lunch?” she asked, dumping the empty light bulb boxes into the trash.

“No food yet,” replied Napoleon, leading the way back inside. “We have a refrigerator but it was just delivered and we haven’t gotten a chance to shop.”

“Why don’t I send one of the kids to pick something up from town?”

“No, Illya can do it. He’s going a little people crazy anyway.”

“I am not!”

“I just caught you glaring at the hydrangeas like they had insulted you, love. I’d say you’ve reached saturation,” Napoleon said with a slight smile. “Take the car and get out of here for a while. Pick up a few things and stop at the deli we saw by the plaza.”

“No onions on mine,” they all recited together suddenly.

The men smiled while Victoria blushed. “Right. You know that already.”

Illya shook his head. “Alright, I’ll go forage for food if nobody else can be bothered to.”

“Our hero.”

And if it took Illya three hours to return with food, nobody said anything.


	7. SEVEN

Napoleon stepped slightly to the left, so he was in the shade of the awning, and ran his hand over the top of the small dresser he was inspecting. It was in need of some cleaning and some wood oil but the little three drawer dresser had lion paw feet and a curling design of paler wood inlaid into the front. “Illya, what do you think about this one?” he asked.

“Umm. Sorry, Mr. Solo, we lost Mr. K back at the last junk stall.”

Napoleon looked back up the aisle of the outdoor flea market and spotted the familiar blond head, slightly faded with age but still recognizable. The Russian was happily picking through a table loaded with old tools, busted radios, and little electronic bits. Napoleon rolled his eyes fondly. “What did I tell you about calling me Mr. Solo when we’re not at work, Adam?”

“Uh, not to? Sorry, Napoleon.” The younger agent, the husband of Napoleon’s niece, gave his boss a big grin.

“Well, what do you think of the dresser, then?”

“For the third bedroom? It might be too big to fit next to the window.”

“Hmm. Better measure it. Hand me the tape.”

“Mr. K has got it.”

Napoleon huffed. “Stay here.” He hurried back up the aisle to where Illya was standing. The brunet nudged Illya’s arm out of the way, fished the tape measure from his jean pocket, placed a quick peck on his cheek, and went back to measure the dresser. (It was possible that Illya was not even aware this happened. He was busy giving a tangled wad of multicolored wires a disdainful look.) The dresser would just fit in the space Napoleon imagined and, after a little bit of haggling, he bought it.

Napoleon and Adam continued down the stalls. Adam glanced back. “Should we be leaving Mr. K behind?”

“He’ll find us when he wants to,” replied Napoleon, unconcerned. There were a couple Section V agents floating about the flea market, keeping any eye on things and, unbeknownst to them, carrying furniture to the truck later. “What do you think about this lamp?”

“I think it looks like a house fire waiting to happen.”

“Illya could rewire it.”

“Please remember that Mr. K is used to making booms.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “He can rewire a lamp. I can rewire a lamp, for that matter.”

“Then it really is a house fire waiting to happen!”

Napoleon glared. “Why did my niece marry you again?”

Adam grinned. “She thought I was funny.”

“Ellie obviously needs mental help, in that case.” 

Adam laughed. “This whole family needs mental help. Look at what we do for a living.”

“Hmmm, good point. What do you think about this vase?”

“I think it will mysteriously get broken the first time you turn your back.”

“Why do I keep asking for your opinion?” sighed Napoleon.

“I’m wondering that myself.”

Napoleon shook his head. “Come on.” They headed off. Adam was pulling an old red wagon across the bumpy ground. The wagon was filled with old books that Napoleon had selected and various mechanical bits that had caught Illya’s eye. There was also an old ceramic tea pot, its blue flowers almost faded off completely. The Russian insisted that old tea pots made the best tea. They came to an artist’s stall with several small paintings on display. A bored looking middle-aged woman was sitting in the very back of the stall. Napoleon cast a careless gaze across them and then paused. He made a sound of interest in his throat.

Adam looked across the paintings and sighed. “Mr. K is not going to be happy if you get another, and I quote, ‘boat picture’.”

“Hush. You are not allowed to voice your opinion anymore.” Napoleon threaded his way to the stand that held a painting of a sailboat being tossed about on a stormy sea. He looked over some of the other paintings, including a water color cityscape and a night sky over some shadowy mountains. He lightly touched the sliver of crescent moon that hung in the dark sky. “Madam?” Napoleon asked, turning. The woman perked up as she was addressed. “Are you the artist?”

“Uh, no, sir. That would be my daughter, Lynn. She, uh, went to get some food.” The woman looked anxiously at the crowd and then grinned. “Here she comes now.” A plump young woman in faded jeans approached, her hands filled with nachos, a hot dog, and two sodas. She was giving Napoleon and Adam a curious look. Her mother took the food out of her hands and set it aside. “Lynn, sweetheart, this gentleman was asking about the artist,” she prompted.

Lynn’s blue eyes lit up and Napoleon couldn’t stop himself from smiling in response. “I was wondering if you do custom pieces?” he asked.

She looked startled. “I… oh! I’ve never done a custom piece before but I’d sure love to. What were you thinking? A portrait?”

“Actually, I was thinking of something bigger. Maybe a mural?”

“Oh wow. I’d love to!”

Napoleon grinned as Lynn bounced a little in excitement. “Let me give you my card. We’re currently finishing up the renovation but I’d love to collaborate with you on a piece for our house.”

“Oh, are you the guys that bought the old Sloan house, off of Fox Lane?” asked Lynn’s mother.

“That would be me,” replied Napoleon, fishing a card with his personal number from his wallet. “This is my nephew-in-law, Adam.”

“Ma’am. Miss,” greeted the blond man with nods of his head.

Illya appeared then, munching on a bag of kettle popcorn. “You didn’t buy another boat picture, did you?”

Adam barked a laugh while Napoleon sighed.


	8. EIGHT

“A little to the left.” The pair of movers inched the desk to the left, as requested. Napoleon cocked his head and nodded. “That’s good.”

“Mr. S?” Napoleon turned. “Here?” asked a worker, holding a large landscape painting up to the wall.

“A little higher.” The painting inched up the wall. Napoleon again cocked his head and nodded. “That’s good.” The position was marked with a pencil and the painting put on the floor so a screw could be placed.

“Uncle Napoleon, does the blue rug go in the living room or the dining room?” shouted Lincoln from the front porch. Napoleon sighed and walked out into the hallway. “Uncle Na…oh. There you are. Living room or dining room?”

“What have your mother and I told you about shouting across the house at people? The living room, please, Joel, thank you.” The mover walked past with the rolled up carpet while Lincoln gave his uncle a sheepish grin.

“It’s rude and not to do it,” the younger man said.

“Hey, Uncle Napoleon, I found the coffee pot,” yelled Eleanor in the kitchen, going through box after box of dishes and pots. Napoleon gave an exasperated sigh while Lincoln chuckled.


	9. NINE

“Napoleon,” Illya hissed. “This is horrible!”

“Uh huh,” mumbled Napoleon, attention on the shelves of crackers. With a growl, Illya grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “Hey!” complained Napoleon.

“This is horrible, Napoleon!” Illya repeated, sounding stricken.

“What’s wrong?”

“They don’t have my jam!”

Napoleon blinked and looked at the shelves behind Illya. “There’s some.”

Illya didn’t turn to look. “That is the wrong brand. It must be my brand and they do not have it.”

“Illya, just get some other type of jam.”

“It. Is. The. Wrong. Brand,” Illya growled, his face stormy.

Eleanor came around the corner, pushing a full grocery cart and frowning down at a piece of paper in her hands. “Hey, Uncle Napoleon, I can’t figure out what this…” She looked up and trailed off. “What’s wrong?”

Illya spat something not flattering in Russian and Napoleon rolled his eyes. “They are out of Illya’s preferred brand of jam, apparently. He’s throwing a hissy-fit.”

“Eto ser'yezno!” exclaimed Illya.

“Illya, love, it is jam. This is not serious. How about we pick some up tomorrow when we’re in the city?” Illya did not look mollified by Napoleon reasonable suggestion.

“I’ve got it,” Eleanor said, reaching into her cart. “They only had three jars and the list said ‘many’ next to the jam, so I figured I should claim the whole lot.” She grinned as Illya snatched the jar from her hand, bringing it close to his face to inspect it without having to dig out his glasses. “I know how much you like jam with your tea, Uncle Illya.”

“Alright?” Napoleon asked, exasperated.

Illya side-eyed him. “I suppose. Your niece has saved the day.”

“God forbid we ever be out of the correct brand of jam.”


	10. TEN

Napoleon set the curtain rod on the hooks and stepped down off the stool. He twitched the curtains so they fell gracefully to the floor and pursed his lips as he inspected the color. They were dark blue with a faint golden filigree pattern and heavy, to keep out the morning light. He glanced down at the rug, a lighter blue than the curtains, and scrunched his face up. “Don’t you like it?” asked a voice behind him.

Napoleon took a step back and considered the whole room. “Do you think it’s too dark?” he asked.

Illya shrugged, putting the laundry basket he was carrying on the bare mattress. “I like the blue tones.” He looked up and smiled slightly. “And the ceiling.”

Napoleon looked up too. “Lynn did do a good job, didn't she?” The tray ceiling had a white border. The center impression was painted a dark blue with a riot of gold stars and deep purple swishes dancing around. A silvery moon hung in the middle, a small crystal chandelier dangling from its round face. It looked like a piece of the night sky transposed into their bedroom.

“She did,” agreed Illya, pulling a sheet from the laundry basket. He flicked it across the bed.

Napoleon came over to tug on the opposite end, fitting the sheet around the mattress. “Maybe I should have gotten white curtains. Vicky warned me about too many dark colors making the room feel like a cave.”

Illya gave a little chuckle. “I thought you might say that,” he said, going over to the closet. “So, I bought this.” He pulled out a cream colored quilt.

Napoleon ran his hand across the soft cloth, a smile blooming on his face. “It's perfect, love. How did you know?”

“I overheard Victoria talking with her husband,” replied Illya, spreading the quilt over the bed.

“Always a spy, I see.”

“Old habits are hard to break.”

Napoleon turned in a slow circle. “I think it looks good.” Illya nodded and Napoleon smiled at him. “Did my sister and the kids leave already?”

“Yes. I locked everything up and reset the security system.”

Napoleon's smile grew. “And I cleaned up dinner and ran the dishwasher.” He looked around the bedroom again with a pleased air. “The renovation is done and everything is in it's place. Illya, this is going to be our first night in our own home.”

Illya shook his head with a smile. “We've lived together in the same apartment in New York for over a decade, dushka.”

“This is different,” argued Napoleon. Illya shook his head again but didn't object. Napoleon huffed, knowing he was being humored, and walked over to press a kiss to Illya's lips, which the blond happily accepted. “Tonight we will sleep in our own home and in the morning we'll get up and make pancakes and coffee in our own kitchen and eat out on our own patio,” Napoleon muttered happily, as if describing a happy dream. 

Illya slid his arms about the taller man and pulled his partner close. “If you wish it.”


End file.
